Baldy stood the boy up on the sidewalk while he hastily sketched out what had been done.
“And he rode that bear, straight-up, made him let go of Whizzer, and then killed the bear with his six-gun,” finished Baldy.
McGill spat thoughtfully and squinted at the three men in the doorway.
“Made a hero out of himself right in front of a crowd,” said McGill sarcastically. “Pretty good advertisin’, eh?”
McGill laughed hoarsely and turned to Baldy, just in time to receive Baldy’s right fist square in his nose; and the fist had every ounce of weight and strength that Baldy possessed behind it.
Baldy’s one punch was sufficient. McGill fell into his own doorway, his shoulders striking the edge of the step and the back of his head fairly bouncing off the floor. None of the three men made any move to assist McGill. Baldy blew on his bruised knuckles, picked Whizzer off the sidewalk, and went on toward his own shack.
McGill recovered sufficiently to get back on his feet, spat out a tooth, along with a weird assortment of profanity, and went back into the saloon to try and find out, with the aid of a mirror, just why his nose seemed so out of proportion to the rest of his face.
“You touched Baldy on a tender spot, Mac,” said one of the men. “Yuh see, Brick Davidson jist saved Baldy’s kid.”
“All right,” growled McGill, like a man suffering from a heavy cold. “There can’t nobody hit me and get away with it.”
“As far as Baldy is concerned, you better let things go as they lie,” advised one of the men.